


Saint Valentine

by Sarah_Vincent1506



Series: AskPolyLosersClub Oneshots [7]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 21:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20896304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Vincent1506/pseuds/Sarah_Vincent1506
Summary: Ben has always been a romantic, at heart. He’s a firm believer that any occasion that actively encourages people to show their love proudly and openly, even if it’s extravagant and completely over-the-top, cannot possibly be a bad thing. Of course, he recognises that Valentine’s Day is incredibly commercial, from a political and economic point-of-view, but to the average person, Valentine’s Day is just fun. It’s simple, harmless, sometimes ridiculous, and overall overwhelmingly positive. Why anybody would ever actively hate it, Ben doesn’t really understand.Shamelessly smutty Stanscom fic linked with the AskPolyLosersClub ask blog on Tumblr, in which the Losers are in a polyamorous relationship.





	Saint Valentine

“Are you sure you’re not coming?”

Beverly holds onto Ben’s arm as they stand in the lamp-lit courtyard outside their house. There’s a glossy, stretch limousine parked just a few feet away; Eddie, in a tight-fitted, burgundy suit leans down through the window to speak to the driver, while Richie waits nearby, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. Richie is slightly less ‘dressed-up’ than the rest of them, but looks no less handsome, for it. Black jeans, and a white, silk shirt embroidered with hot pink hibiscus flowers. His hair is surprisingly tidy, which is how you know Richie has made an effort.

Beverly looks characteristically beautiful. Her hair falls in soft curls around her face, tucked back behind one ear to reveal a diamond stud. Full, red lips accent her dress, emerald green in shimmering silk, sitting low on her shoulders and high on her pale thighs.

“I’m sure,” Ben smiles, with a reassuring nod, “You guys have fun, and I’ll see you when you get back.”

“He really doesn’t like it, you know?” Bill rounds Ben’s other side, dressed smartly in dark blue trousers and a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s carrying the jacket of his suit over his arm, and he lifts it around Beverly’s shoulders when he sees that she has goosebumps on her skin, pulling it close around her body with a smile. He looks back to Ben, “He hates all of the ‘Hallmark holidays’.”

Ben chuckles softly, shrugs his shoulders a little, “Nobody should be alone on Valentine’s Day, whether they celebrate it or…openly detest it or not.”

Bill laughs, “Is there anything Stan doesn’t ‘openly detest’?” He rests his hand on the back of Ben’s neck to press a kiss to his lips, before he takes Beverly’s arm. She kisses Ben, too, soft and slow, eyes filled with love and admiration as she moves away.

_“You look beautiful,”_ she whispers, and Bill appears to eye Ben’s tailored, grey Armani ensemble and his neatly landscaped stubble in slightly salacious agreement.

“I dunno,” Richie appears beside them, as he comes in to share a kiss with Ben, too, hands still in his pockets as he leans in, “He doesn’t openly detest our man Benjamin, here. At least he won’t be able to lecture you on the commercialisation of religious holidays with your dick in his mouth.”

Ben shakes his head slowly in disapproval of Richie’s crass humour, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek as though trying not to laugh.

“Okay, guys, in the car, hurry it up! The reservation is for _seven_ o’clock!” Eddie’s looking at his watch as he marches over, gets up on his toes to kiss Ben’s cheek and then the corner of his mouth in quick succession, “Have fun, good luck, _I love you_, let’s go, guys, c’mon!”

“I love you, too!” Ben snickers affectionately as he watches Eddie hurry away again, ushering Bill and Beverly into the back of the limo. Richie soon follows.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Ben watches Richie stoop to climb into the limo, as he hears the door to the house being locked, behind him.

“That’s a _very_ short list! So I guess what I’m really saying is _go crazy_, man! Just go to fucking town!”

“Richie shut up!” Eddie barks, as he pushes him the rest of the way into the limousine with his foot, “Just fucking sit down!”

Mike appears, just as handsomely suit-clad as the others, from behind Ben, then, a hand on his lower back, as he kisses his temple.

“If you manage to convince him to come, you could always meet us later. I’ll keep the tab open.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ben smiles, “You all enjoy your evening.”

“And you enjoy yours.” Mike places another kiss, to Ben’s lips, this time, “And don’t do anything _I_ wouldn’t do. That’s a much longer list,” he chuckles, as he heads over to where Eddie is waiting for him at the door of the limousine.

Ben laughs softly to himself, pressing his fingers to his lips, and holding out his hand to them all, as Eddie gets in last, and slides the door closed.

He waves them off down the driveway. Even though he can’t see them through the tinted windows, he knows that they can see him.

Feeling oddly excited, he gets into his own car.

Ben has always been a romantic, at heart. He’s a firm believer that any occasion that actively encourages people to show their love proudly and openly, even if it’s extravagant and completely over-the-top, cannot possibly be a bad thing. Of course, he recognises that Valentine’s Day is incredibly commercial, from a political and economic point-of-view, but to the average person, Valentine’s Day is just _fun_. It’s simple, harmless, sometimes ridiculous, and overall overwhelmingly positive. Why anybody would ever actively hate it, Ben doesn’t really understand.

He pulls up to the valet parking on 60th street just before 8PM, on foot the rest of the way. From there, it’s only a two minute walk, around the corner, until he’s greeted by the glass building at 650 Madison Avenue, all 27 stories glittering in the lights of New York City at night. The street is still fairly busy, and all of its travellers look so, too, the sidewalk awash with fancy suits, red-soled heels and designer purses. Though the surrounding stores are closed, or closing, there are a number of high-class, high-quality restaurants in the area, and Ben enjoys the strange feeling of camaraderie he shares with passers-by, through short smiles and glistening eyes, couples of all types heading out for romantic dinners and weekend city getaways.

There are lights on inside the Ralph Lauren headquarters. Ben can see them, all the way up at the top, when he steps back to the edge of the sidewalk, but the lower floors are dark, and the doors are certainly locked, by now. Smiling, he pulls out his phone, and sends a text to Stan.

_‘Would you like some company?’_

Within thirty seconds, he gets a reply.

_‘You shouldn’t be texting at the dinner table.’_

Ben breathes out a soft laugh.

_‘How about from the sidewalk?’_

There’s a far longer pause, this time, before he receives a response.

_‘I’ll allow it.’ _Shortly followed by, _‘Who’s with you?’_

_‘Just me.’_

_‘And your hands?’_

Ben frowns, unsure if Stan is making a crude joke, but inclined to laugh regardless. Wary of misreading the tone, he sends a question mark, in response.

_‘Are you carrying something?’_

Ben looks around over his shoulders, slightly concerned that Stan is around him, somewhere, out of sight, but the next text quickly quells his concerns.

_‘If you are holding anything heart-shaped, rose-like, or which in any way at all resembles a stuffed animal, please kindly leave it outside.’_

Ben laughs, _‘You have nothing to fear, from me.’ _

There’s silence, for a while. Ben looks up at the lights on the 27th floor, and jumps when he lowers his head to look back down at his phone, and sees Stan waiting at the other side of the glass doors.

As usual, he looks _exquisite_. Dark eyes, dark curls, dark clothes, all accentuating what little flashes of smooth, pale skin are visible.

Ben can’t help the way his heart flutters as he approaches the other side. With excitement? Surely. With nerves? Absolutely_. _With love? Of course. With lust? Ben feels slightly ashamed, but…

_…definitely._

Stan’s eyes glitter in the streetlamps, from the other side of the glass, so dark they’re almost black, and Ben gazes into them like a lost puppy, as he waits for Stan to unlock the door.

Thankfully, he does.

“That was fast,” Ben notes, as he steps inside. Stan locks the door again, behind him.

“I knew you were here.”

“What? _How?_ Did Rich tell you?”

“No.” Stan holds up his phone, and it’s open on a map, upon which he can see Ben’s current location, beside the little red, pulsing dot he assumes is Stan.

“Do you…_always_ watch where we’re going?” Ben asks, with a tone of amusement.

“I have to make sure none of you are having an affair with a younger woman,” Stan deadpans back, and Ben laughs, before Stan continues, in what is now an obviously serious response, “I like to know where you are.”

“That’s fair.” Ben watches Stan tuck a curl of hair behind his ear. He wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t. Stan doesn’t really like being kissed. Ben doesn’t like pushing boundaries. “Although…while I’m sure there are _plenty_ of beautiful young women out there, anything else would surely be…less.”

Stan stares him right in the eyes, for a long time. It makes Ben feel incredibly anxious, but in a way he has surprisingly learned to enjoy.

“You are _unendingly_ charming, aren’t you?” Stan smiles, and his smile seems genuine, not forced or faked in any way at all.

“I try my best,” Ben responds with a bashful little shrug.

“Well, since you’re here, you might as well make yourself comfortable,” Stan reaches out to smooth out one side of the collar of Ben’s shirt (a collar Ben is positive wasn’t creased in the slightest), and then tugs lightly at his lapel, “Come on.”

Stan heads back to the elevator he must have taken down, and Ben follows closely behind.

“You look lovely.”

Stan says it suddenly, clearly, in the silence that accompanies the long elevator ride to the top floor, and Ben feels his mouth go a little dry.

“I…well, I…thank you,” he smiles, unable to quash the instant discomfort that always comes along with being complimented. Stan, on the other hand, is the picture of calm and composure as he watches Ben, eyes scanning his face. Ben manages to maintain eye contact, in response, but he’s painfully aware that no matter how confident he tries to make himself appear, Stan will detect any hint of self-consciousness or weakness in his eyes right away.

“Why are you thanking me? _I_ didn’t make you.”

Ben can’t help but laugh at Stan’s odd humour, though Stan himself doesn’t laugh at all.

“Well, it goes without saying, but…you look lovely, too. As always. _More _than lovely.”

There’s a soft smile at Stan’s lips, then, and he glances down at the ground for a second before looking back.

“_Much_ more,” Ben adds, as an afterthought. And it really was an after_thought. _He’s not entirely sure that he meant to say it aloud.

Stan’s smile slowly falls, then, and Ben wonders briefly if he said something wrong, but judging by the intense way Stan is staring at him, followed by the affectionate way he holds Ben’s waist to turn him around when the elevator doors open, it wasn’t the wrong thing to say, at all.

They exit into a reception area, the dark, wood-panelled walls lined with expensive paintings and warmly lit with marbled sconces. In the centre of the high ceiling, there’s a large chandelier. The reception desk itself is an impressive stretch of intricately carved wood, which looks like it would be far more suited to a museum than an office space. At the other side, a brown leather sofa, and a glass coffee table, laden with glossy fashion magazines. Everything looks too perfect, as though it is staged that way, rather than for practical use; the magazines on the table are fanned out all too neatly, the stationery behind the reception desk a matching set, placed in a straight row, beside them, an origami swan without a single misplaced crease or wrinkle.

Stan sees Ben looking at it as they pass, “One of my assistants…Jessica,” he motions to one of the chairs behind the desk, “She asked me to teach her to make those for her wedding. She wants to use them as place-cards.”

Ben smiles, and picks it up to admire it, “She made this? It’s really good.”

“_I _made that. She’s awful at it,” Stan lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, and Ben sees a fondness in his eyes that he feels rather touched by. He wonders about the Stanley Uris other people see; people outside their relationship. “She doesn’t know this, but, I’ve already made them all for her. Two-hundred and sixty.” Ben gently places the swan back on the desk. “It took me three weeks. I’m just humouring her, at this point, because she seems to enjoy it.”

Ben smiles. “You’re wonderful.”

Stan almost looks bashful, when he says that, shaking his head a little, “It’s nothing. She’s a lovely woman.” He heads to the other side of the room, where there’s a fancy, polished door, and a golden placard that reads, ‘Stanley Uris, Chief Financial Officer’, in cursive letters.

Stan’s office is just as extravagant as the rest, all dark, shiny wood, and an almost regal décor. The lights are off, in here, but the room is illuminated by the screen from Stan’s computer on the large, beautifully carved desk, and the dreamy combination of moonlight and street lights pouring through the enormous windows. Hanging from the ceiling, an identical crystal chandelier to the one in the reception area, glittering in the low light.

“It’s a little dark,” Ben notes casually, as he closes the door behind them.

“It helps me to concentrate.” Stan motions to one of the plush leather chairs facing his desk, “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

As he sits down, and Stan takes a seat at the other side of the desk, in his high-backed office chair, brown leather, and edged with gold studding, Ben feels oddly…like he’s a customer, there, and not like he’s sitting opposite a man he is unofficially married to.

“If you came here to convince me to come out for dinner with you all, you wasted your time, Benjamin.” Stan’s glasses are on the desk beside his computer, and he puts them on, now, so that he can clearly see the screen. Although, from what Ben can see in the reflection of their lenses, it looks as though he’s closing documents, and shutting it down. He can’t help but smile, at that; the thought that Stan is switching his full attention to Ben.

“I’m not here to convince you of anything,” Ben says softly, “I just don’t like the idea of you sitting here by yourself, on Valentine’s Day.” Stan goes to speak, but Ben raises his hand a little, politely prevents him, “I know what you’re going to say. I know you don’t care, but I _do_. So I hope you will forgive me for interrupting your work.”

Stan’s computer screen has gone black, now, and he removes his glasses again slowly, neatly tucking them into his shirt pocket, “Well, I can always continue with this another time.” He looks at his watch, “It is almost eight-fifteen. And I’ve been working for…” A pause, “Fourteen hours.”

Ben sits forward, “Are you hungry? I could go and get you something to eat. I could be back in about ten minutes.” He makes to stand, but Stan gets up, instead, shaking his head.

“’Ten minutes’, in the centre of Manhattan, on Valentine’s Day evening? You’d be lucky to get back in ten _hours_.”

“I’m sure I could find something…”

“I’m fine. I’m not very hungry.” Stan smiles, and perches himself on the edge of the desk, in front of him. Ben can’t help the prickle of heat he feels in his body, seeing the proximity of Stan’s thighs to Ben’s waist, how his trousers are so closely tailored that the fabric strains slightly against his hips. Ben doesn’t look directly, of course, but can see it all in the bottom of his peripheral vision.

Once upon a time, Ben wouldn’t have ever even _considered_ the idea of being attracted to men. He still isn’t. At least, not to any outside their relationship. He used to think that that was odd, worried over it for hours at a time, felt nervous and embarrassed and even _scared _of what it meant, what it implied about him, about his sexuality. Over time, the feelings grew stronger, more real, and so, too, did his bond with the male members of their strange, exclusive _club_. Ben can’t really remember the last time it bothered him, now. All he knows is, his thoughts, his feelings, his preferences, they just _are_. And that’s okay.

In any case, he’s _definitely_ attracted to Stan, now.

_Fiercely_ so.

He sees the way Stan is looking at him, in the low light of the office, and he knows that Stan is attracted to him, too. He sees Stan’s eyes unashamedly lower to the spread of Ben’s muscular thighs in the chair, slowly rise to the buckle of his belt. They admire Ben’s hands, clasped in his lap, the swell of his biceps through his suit jacket, the broadness of his shoulders, the masculine line of his stubbled jaw, before they meet his eyes, again. It’s all clearly intentional, a show for Ben to see that Stan’s train of thought might be following Ben’s own.

At the very least, it helps to rekindle his confidence. Maybe that was Stan’s intent, all along.

“I got you something,” Ben says boldly, now, standing up as he pulls a red box, slightly larger than a ring box, from his inside pocket. He holds it out to Stan. The gold lettering on the lid reads, _‘Cartier’_.

Stan’s eyes flicker up from the box to meet Ben’s almost instantly, “Ben…”

“Open it,” Ben smiles, resting it into Stan’s hands when he reaches up for it.

When Stan opens the box, there’s a stunning gold bracelet inside, nested in the velvet cushioning.

“I remember you talking about these,” Ben explains calmly, “And I know you’re not interested in roses or chocolates, or Valentine’s _dinners_,” He chuckles affectionately, “But I got gifts for everyone else, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to accept it.”

Stan lifts the bracelet from the box carefully, as Ben places the packaging aside, uses the tiny gold screwdriver also nestled in the box to help undo the fastening and then tighten it again around Stan’s slender wrist. He can feel Stan staring at him the whole time, his fingers lightly touching at Ben’s, every chance he gets; it’s a lovely, intimate moment.

Once it’s on, and Ben places the mini tool back into the box, Stan lifts his arm and admires it, gently turns his wrist this way and that, watches the polished metal reflect light from every direction. His eyes meet Ben’s again, but he looks as though he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m not good with…”

“I know,” Ben smiles, nods in understanding, “You don’t have to thank me. As long as you like it, that’s enough.” He hastily adds, “But if you don’t-”

“I love it,” Stan cuts in quickly, and he stands from the edge of the desk, until they’re eye-to-eye, “I love _you_,” He says, far more softly.

Ben wants to reciprocate the _‘I love you’_, can’t imagine a circumstance in which you wouldn’t, but before he can, Stan’s hand slides up onto the back of his neck, and he shares what might be the most gentle kiss he has ever received from Stan, before.

It’s a brief brush of lips, maybe three or four seconds, but to Ben, it is _everything_.

“Thank you,” Stan says, then, as their lips part. He still has his hand on Ben’s neck, and their faces are close together, “You know that I didn’t get you anything, though?”

“I never expected you to,” Ben smiles, hands gently resting against Stan’s forearms; they’re itching to move to his body, maybe his waist, or even his hips, but he doesn’t dare.

“I think I can make it up to you.” Stan’s breath ghosts Ben’s lips as he speaks, then, and that, coupled with the intensity of his gaze makes Ben’s heart pound in his chest.

“You don’t have to…” Ben begins, as Stan holds onto Ben’s waist, clearly far bolder than he is, and steers him, backs him towards the extravagant office chair behind the desk, “Stan…”

“You’re right,” Stan nods slowly, as he presses Ben down into the chair, hands moving to his shoulders, now, settling him back, “I don’t _have_ to do anything.” He sinks to his knees.

Ben immediately sits forward, shaking his head, incredibly uncomfortable as he holds onto Stan’s wrists, prevents him from doing anything further.

“Stan, please listen to me, you don’t have to…you definitely don’t have to do…_this_, I wasn’t just _expecting_-”

“_I know_,” Stan cuts over him firmly, rests his hands on the arms of the chair and rises on his knees until their faces meet again, “_Relax_.” His voice is soothingly soft, then, as he leans up for another kiss.

This time, it’s firm, full, _intense_. Ben still feels anxious, but then Stan’s hands come up either side of his face, one of them slides into his hair, fingers tugging ever-so gently, pulling him down, drawing him in. They kiss for a _long_ time, and Stan remains in control, making a very obvious display of _wanting_ this, hands gripping Ben’s neck, then his face, his hair, his shoulders, back to his neck again, drawing him back in if ever Ben seems to loosen or pull away. Ben knows this is a trick, of sorts, an act, to get him to loosen up, to think that Stan wants this as much as he does, so that he won’t back out, but _damn_ if it isn’t working. He can feel the tension in his shoulders releasing, his nerves melting away like Valentine’s chocolate between their warm lips.

Slowly, _eventually_, Stan pulls away, chest rising and falling more heavily than before, and cheeks just a little flushed.

“_Believe me_,” Stan says softly, with a hint of venom, as he sits back on his heels, the spread of his palms on Ben’s thighs, fingers digging in just so, “This is as much for me as it is for you.”

Ben feels the graze of Stan’s neat fingernails distinctly, even through the fabric of his trousers, as they move up his inner thighs, and then back down to his knees again. Slowly, teasingly, they follow this same path, over and over and over, until Ben can feel his skin beginning to prickle with want all over. Their eyes are locked throughout, in darkness, silence, until Stan breaks it.

“Just say _‘stop’_…and I’ll stop.” His fingers travel further North, then, the longest two digits of his right hand sliding up against the crotch of Ben’s pants, achingly close either side of his manhood. His nerves have done well to quell what could have been an embarrassing hardness, by now, but they won’t do much else, the longer he looks into Stan’s dark eyes.

“Are you comfortable?” Are the next words to leave Stan’s lips, and Ben can’t help the small laugh that escapes his.

“Definitely not…”

Stan smirks, but there’s a softness to his expression Ben’s sure wouldn’t be granted to other people if they found themselves in a similar situation. Stan must know he’s making him nervous, and while he does find some enjoyment in it, his stance softens. He rests against the inside of Ben’s right knee, with his elbow across it, tickling fingertips gently against the back of Ben’s hand and his wrist on the armrest, as the fingers of Stan’s right continue their slow, back and forth stroke either side of the growing outline at the crotch of his trousers.

“Just remember: you can always say _‘stop’_,” Stan offers gently, and Ben can’t help the flutter he gets in his chest at the thought that Stan _definitely_ does not offer that to anyone else. Ben knows so. He has seen it himself.

At this stage, though, Ben knows for certain he would never want to stop, regardless of his nerves. It’s not that Stan makes him nervous out of principle (at least, not anymore), rather that Ben’s frightfully aware of the fact that he can’t play into Stan's dangerous, boundary-pushing fantasies. He has tried, once or twice before, but it hasn’t ever ended well. It just isn’t in him to be aggressive, or cold. Ben likes sex to be loving, romantic, intimate. He’s not opposed to it getting a little rough at times, but his idea of rough, and Stan’s, are very, _very_ different.

Stan is certainly being gentle now, though, fingers tracing what Ben thinks seem to be words against the delicate skin of his wrist, while his other hand continues its devilish teasing of his manhood. Ben doesn’t mind the teasing. It’s playful, without being too much, it’s always soft, and slow. And it takes a lot, for Ben to crack…to maybe get restless…to maybe _beg_. Stan has definitely discovered where that line begins, before, and has certainly crossed it, no matter how long it took to get there.

Their fingers loosely intertwine on the armrest of the chair, Stan’s doing, as he watches Ben with relaxed, lustful eyes, thick lashes casting spider-like shadows on his high cheekbones.

“You’re beautiful,” Ben says suddenly, quietly.

Stan’s eyes appear to darken, as his hand stills, but Ben knows that it isn’t a bad sign, at all.

Stan isn’t the only one who knows what people _like._

Ben feels an odd swell of triumph as he watches Stan tighten their fingers, and lift Ben’s hand with his own to lightly press a kiss to his knuckles. His other hand, still teasing, but far more accommodating, all of a sudden, palms at the sizeable bulge in Ben’s trousers, kneading and groping and stroking until Ben starts to feel restless.

He doesn’t appear so, though. Or, at least, he hopes he doesn’t. He’s good at being patient.

Stan, on the other hand, while often noted as the ‘Master of self-control’, is beginning to reveal minute, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it signs that he might not be so composed, after all. Thankfully, Ben has always been very observant.

He sees the _very_ brief drop of Stan’s gaze to Ben’s body, and a particular part of him Ben might be a little embarrassed to have admired, under any other circumstance. As it stands, though, that is definitely what is happening, the other twice Stan’s line of sight shifts downward, _admiration._

He feels the _slightest_ quickening of Stan’s pulse, against his own skin, where their hands are still held together. It’s barely noticeable, but that, coupled with a more prominent rise and fall of his chest as he breathes tells the story plainly.

He sees the _smallest_ hint of the corner of Stan’s bottom lip being tugged by his teeth, as he squeezes his fingers against Ben’s now embarrassingly obvious erection. And that, combined with these other little changes, reveals to Ben all he needs to know.

“I mean it,” He says, sincerely. And he _does_ mean it, whether the truth works to his advantage or not, “_True_ beauty, in every sense of the word. You’re a marvel.”

Stan has let go of him, now, and he’s getting closer, rising on his knees. Ben instantly sits forward, shifts to the very edge of the chair. He can feel Stan’s hips between his thighs, and he rests his hands against his face, feeling emboldened by the infatuated look in his eyes.

“It’s true, I came here because I didn’t want you to spend Valentine’s Day alone, but it wasn’t pity, that really brought me to you,” Stan looks even more lovely, without a stern look on his face, or a tension in his brow. Now, there’s a slight furrow of longing there, instead, and it’s causing Ben’s heart to _ache_ in the best way. He keeps talking, words spilling from his lips in a shameful display of heartfelt sincerity, “I just wanted to see you, I just wanted to look at you.”

Before he can really think about what he’s doing, Ben’s fingers are gently sliding apart the knot of Stan’s tie. “I _always _want to look at you. You only get more beautiful.” He pulls it from around his neck carefully, and Stan takes it from him, as he rises to his feet, places it behind him on the desk without looking to see where it goes, very un-_Stan_-like in his disregard for one of his personal possessions.

Stan climbs into Ben’s lap, now, fingers gripping at the leather as he settles in against him, fully, closely, completely, and Ben welcomes him in with open arms, which tighten around him once he’s there.

“I don’t think ‘_want’_ is even a strong enough word,” Ben continues, releasing a sharp outward breath, hands moving confidently to Stan’s hips as he starts to slowly gyrate them, clothed stomachs, thighs, and all manner of _intimate_ areas rubbing firmly together, “It’s like a _need_.”

Stan’s still staring him right in the eyes, hardly blinking, but there’s a heaviness to his eyelids that quickly shifts Ben’s emotional response to that from ‘terrified’ to ‘enamoured’. Stan is hanging off his every word; it’s a role-reversal like none Ben has quite experienced with Stan, before. He’s still very aware that it could change at any moment, though, that he has to maintain the tempo.

“How could anyone who ever looks at you not instantly fall in love?” Ben breathes quickly, feeling Stan’s hips stutter against him, at that, before his pace picks up. The friction between them is _delicious_, but it’s the way Stan is looking at him, the proximity of their bodies, their faces, that really has Ben going. He can feel his heartbeat quickening, his cheeks getting hotter, blood pumping hard in his veins, and he thinks, ‘this is what people mean when they say you’re love_sick_.’

Ben feels emboldened by the enraptured look in Stan’s eyes, and allows his hands to wander, to say more than he knows his mouth will shortly be able to, at least in any articulate way. He strokes his wide palms around Stan’s hips, tugs gently at his belt, feels the rhythm of Stan’s hips increase; it’s more of a rock, now, than a circular motion, and Stan’s lips part ever so slightly, as Ben watches them in dumb fascination, before his gaze quickly rises, once more, to meet his eyes.

He strokes gently at Stan’s lower back, for a while, and then up it to his surprisingly firm shoulders, down his arms. At his wrists, he carefully unbuttons his shirt cuffs, lifts Stan’s hands to his lips and kisses his palms, his knuckles, the backs of his hands as he links their fingers, while Stan continues to watch his every minor move. Everyone knows that Stan is proud, that he’s even a little conceited, sometimes, and in light of that, they all know that Stan likes being adored…fawned over…_worshipped_…but he’s also completely averse to affection, most of the time. There’s a very small window, the tiniest line, between the two, and you have to balance on that, if you want to _really_ win him over. Ben knows he’s treading that line, now. The slightest misstep, and he could fall right off again.

“_I’ve the urge to put my lips on every part of your body_,” Ben whispers against Stan’s wrist, just beneath the golden bracelet he put there himself, before he places a slow kiss there; the release of his lips is audible, “_Would you allow me?_”

Stan pulls his hands free, but it’s only to tangle his fingers into Ben’s hair as he kisses him, deep and slow and passionate. His hips press down harder in Ben’s lap, and Ben grips at his waist, slides his arms around it tightly, possessively. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stan this openly needy, before, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t making his head swim with desire.

There are several quiet minutes of this: close, desperate rutting and kissing that now involves tongues, this quiet only broken by the occasional heavy breath, the creak of the leather chair, the slightly vulgar, wet sound of lips meeting, and parting, and meeting again. Ben’s hands travel down Stan’s back, grip briefly at his behind, before returning to his torso, languidly untucking his shirt from his trousers so that they can get beneath to feel bare flesh. The feel of Stan’s waist is intoxicating, curved inwards in an almost feminine shape, but so much firmer, so much more solid. His fingers dig into his flesh harder, perhaps, than Ben intended to, but Stan’s hips rut, in response, as he groans surprisingly loudly and abruptly into Ben’s open mouth.

Ben is so caught of guard by it that he barely notices the slowing of Stan’s previously eager movements in his lap. It’s only when the kiss is broken, and Stan is breathing shaky and slow against Ben’s lips, heavy eyes open, that Ben opens his, too.

“I’m sorry,” Ben reverts to apologising automatically, though he’s unsure what it is he’s sorry for, as he strokes gently at Stan’s arms and shoulders in consolation, “Did I hurt you?”

Stan stares at him for a while, before his composure breaks, and he just starts laughing, rubbing his hands briefly over his face and then up through his hair.

Ben comes to a realisation all too suddenly, “Did you...”

“You’re a lot better at this than you think,” is Stan’s response, as he unbuckles his belt, “You’re a lot better at this than _I_ think…or _thought_.”

Ben can’t help the smile that breaks at his lips, but he tries to stop it, very aware of appearing to make fun, “Well, then, I suppose you’re lucky you work somewhere that makes very nice underwear.” He’s trying his best to make light of it without sounding either smug or like he’s laughing _at_ him, worried that Stan might be embarrassed. He doesn’t appear to be, though.

“So are you,” Stan quips back, as he pushes Ben’s blazer off his shoulders, encouraging him to sit forward and take it off. It’s discarded on the floor, as dextrous fingers unfasten the buttons of Ben’s Armani shirt in record time, “We’re not done.” He hesitates as he tugs either side of Ben’s shirt away from his impressively toned abdomen, “Are we?” The question doesn’t sound concerned that they’re done, at all, more probing, pushing for Ben to jump straight back in.

“Not if I can help it,” Ben answers fairly breathlessly, as he shakes his head, and moves to unfasten Stan’s shirt, too, trying to ignore the intense way Stan is staring at his bare torso. He knows he has nothing to be embarrassed about…far from it, but…

…it’s still hard.

“I’m so glad you came,” Stan announces, out of the blue, as he strokes the flat of his palm down from Ben’s chest, and across his flat stomach, tracing a delicate fingertip around the outlines of the muscles there, and watching them twitch beneath his touch, mesmerised. It almost seems as though he’s talking to Ben’s body, rather than to Ben; the thought almost makes Ben laugh.

“I’m glad you did, too.”

Stan’s eyes snap upwards, then, and Ben really worries for a second that he pushed it too far by making that joke…he wonders what on earth possessed him to say it out loud, and curses Richie for years of experience making it so easy to do so.

Stan smirks.

“Don’t get _cocky_.” He stands up from Ben’s lap, backed against the desk, as he unfastens his trousers with completely steady fingers, and toes off both shoes and socks in one motion; an impressive feat. Ben shrugs off his shirt hurriedly as he watches Stan continue to undress in front of him, illuminated in the moonlight from the large windows Stan clearly couldn’t care less are facing him as he removes his underwear, too.

All he leaves on is his watch, his wedding ring, and the bracelet, lifting his wrist to admire it as he climbs back into Ben’s lap. Ben has to frustratedly quell the worry he feels about where to put his hands on Stan’s naked skin, wondering how many years they have to be together before it stops happening. They settle on his smooth chest, thumb grazing a nipple as he leans in to litter his neck and shoulders with kisses.

Ben can feel his groin pulsing with steady arousal, but he couldn’t care less, happy to ignore his own urges for the rest of his life just for the chance to consistently offer pleasure to others. To those he loves most in the world. He’s relieved enough that he managed to offer it to Stan already…

…and he’ll be _damned_ if he’s not going to do it again, even more thoroughly.

He feels Stan’s hands on the fastening of his trousers between them, so steady and sure as he pushes down the zip and slips his fingers inside. Ben can’t hold back the sigh that passes his lips and ghosts Stan’s shoulder when those agile fingers are around him, offering relief in the form of slow, tight strokes.

“Is this what you came here for?” Stan purrs, and Ben can feel himself being watched as he distractedly brushes his lips across the pronounced line of Stan’s collarbone. Rather than shy away, he decides to meet him, then and there, lifting his head so that they’re face-to-face. That’s clearly just what Stan wants; he tightens his fist, moves it faster, eyes glittering when Ben gasps, his own lips parting to mirror the way Ben’s mouth opens when he does.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, then, and Ben does so, without question, breath shuddering when Stan releases his hand. He can feel him moving to lean back, hear the opening of a desk drawer. He daren’t open his eyes to see what he’s doing, knows that Stan will be watching to make sure that he doesn’t. He hears the familiar sound of a key in a lock, another draw sliding outwards on its runners, and then closing, to be locked again. He briefly wonders what it is Stan keeps in a locked drawer in his office that he didn’t want Ben to see. Then again…Ben thinks he might be able to make several, faint-hearted guesses.

“You can open them.”

When Ben opens his eyes, Stan is holding a small, shiny black bottle, an expensive brand of lubricant. He imagines that Stan might turn up his nose at the idea of using something as commonplace as K.Y., even though it’s probably all the same ingredients, and serves the same purpose.

“Should I be worried that you have that at work?”

“Not in the slightest,” Stan smirks, as he pops open the cap with his thumb, “I wouldn’t have bothered, only, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

There have been very few times in his life, where Ben has had sex without it, even with Beverly. He can’t countenance the idea of causing even the slightest bit of pain to any of his partners, and so it became a staple.

“Well, I do…thank you,” Ben responds almost bashfully, and Stan watches him with an amused smile on his face, as he tips it into the palm of his hand, leaving the bottle on the desk top.

“You’re far too uptight for someone so pretty,” Stan teases, as he dips his hands down between them, tugs at the waist of Ben’s trousers, and pulls him free from his boxer-briefs, watching the contents of his palm drip slowly down his shaft as he tips his hand.

“Look who’s talking,” Ben bites back, though there’s no venom at all in his soft voice. He hisses when Stan’s fingers close around him, once more, slick and horrendously audible now as he offers no more than a few single, slow twists of his palm. The remainder of the slippery substance winds up smeared across Ben’s shoulder as Stan places his hand there, fingers tightening as he shifts forward in his lap, and sinks down onto him with perfected ease.

Stan’s head tips backwards, just briefly, before they’re face-to-face again, Stan’s hands on Ben’s shoulders, sliding up towards his neck, Ben’s hands on Stan’s hips, supporting, steadying. In a similar rhythm to the one Stan began moments earlier, between their clothed bodies, he begins again, between their naked skin.

First, a slow roll, a circular motion, just enough to ignite the first few sparks of pleasure. Shortly afterwards, a pointed _rock_ of his hips, not quick yet, by any means, but enough that Ben can feel a similar rising ecstasy as the one he got from Stan’s tight fist, just before. This one, however, is amplified tenfold…hundredfold…just _knowing_…just the _thought_ of where he’s buried, now, in Stan’s perfect, lean body above him.

“_Talk to me_,” Stan breathes, impossibly and effortlessly sexy, as his hands rise to the top of Ben’s neck, now, thumbs brushing the flawless lines of his jaw.

“You know I’m not good at…” Ben’s eyes meet Stan’s, and they’re so, _so_ dark, so dangerous, so utterly and terrifyingly beautiful; he would do anything for him. He feels like he’s being hypnotised.

“_Ben_.” The way he says his name sounds like there was a second word, there, unsaid, and it was almost definitely _‘please’_.

“Tell me what you want,” Ben offers, almost desperately, “And I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything…_everything_.”

Stan is watching Ben’s lips as he speaks, the pad of his thumb brushing the bottom one, and tugging it gently open. The rock of his hips gets faster. The both of them react to it, Ben gasping, Stan watching the movement of his mouth as he does so, and groaning quietly in response.

“_Yes_,” he breathes, and Ben’s hands move down to Stan’s bare thighs, tighten their hold, fingers dragging at him a little, as though trying to draw him further in.

Once more, Ben seeks out Stan’s pleasure, rather than his own, hands sliding around beneath his thighs after a while, and aiding his rise and fall when it begins. He leans into his neck, sucks and kisses the softest, lightest marks into the crook of it, across his collarbones, his shoulders, his upper arms. The marks will fade, within seconds, but Ben wants them to, would never countenance the idea of leaving something that would have been hard enough to be lasting.

He watches the way Stan’s head drops back, minutes in, leaves a similar trail of affection all the way around his jaw, and up under his chin, lips hovering against his throat any time Stan makes the _slightest_ noise, the quietest of pleasurable sounds. Ben is fuelled by each and every one, pushing deeper, seeking more, thriving on Stan’s satisfaction.

He can see something in Stan’s face, now, the need to say something, but it doesn’t come. Ben can quite easily figure it out for himself, though.

“_Faster?_” He offers helpfully, finding his own voice surprisingly steady, when it comes out. He’s thankful for that.

Stan nods slowly, eyes burning into him, arms tightening about his broad shoulders, and Ben is quick to accommodate, bringing his own hips up to meet him, easily, thoroughly, effortlessly increasing their rhythm, and the depth. He gets his arms around Stan’s waist again, holding him close against his body, admiring the way he bites at his bottom lip to half-contain a shaky groan as the ecstasy begins to play out across his face.

More time passes, Ben’s not sure how long, of frequent, brief kisses and panting breaths, skin hitting skin, and then slowing to a grind, before becoming rough, once more, repeatedly changing tempo, but always remaining close and intimate, until Ben can see the dark curls beginning to stick to Stan’s forehead, and feel his breath shaking against Ben’s lips.

“_I love you_,” Ben whispers, against him. His own voice is shaking too, now, and breathless.

Stan doesn’t verbally respond, but there’s a look in his eyes so fierce that Ben knows what it means, without the need to hear it.

“_Tell me when,_” He says, then, altering their position little by little, angling his hips as Stan drops back against the edge of the desk, and untucks one of his legs, resting his foot against the arm of the chair. A particular thrust seems to cause a sudden, rapid rise and fall in his chest, and Stan digs his nails into Ben’s hand on his waist, expelling what almost sounds like a whimper.

He doesn’t need to be told twice what he’s aiming for, watching Stan come completely undone in front of him as he holds that position, all but lifting him onto the desk, hips hitting harder than he’d usually allow himself to be. The reaction it’s causing in Stan is too much for him to bear not to, though, the strained arch of his back, the tightening of the muscles in his abdomen, the way one of his hands slides up his chest, hovers briefly at his own throat, before dropping to grip tightly at the edge of the desk, instead, knuckles white, cheeks red, eyes shut tight.

The sound of metal repeatedly hitting wood is one of the more prominent sounds, from the expensive bracelet on Stan’s wrist.

Ben could watch him like this forever, but, seconds later, it’s over.

Stan releases for the second time across his stomach, with a surprisingly loud, suppressed groan. That by itself sends Ben over the edge, too, pleasure coursing through his body in a sudden wave; he wonders vaguely how long he had been holding it back, without even realising he was doing so.

He lifts Stan from the desk, a few minutes later, with an arm around his back, the two of them settling back into the chair languidly, Stan draped over him in an uncharacteristically relaxed fashion, arms looped about his shoulders. They kiss lazily for what must be at least half an hour.

Ben doesn’t know. He’s certainly not checking the time.

At 10PM, they show up at the restaurant, Stan taking a seat between Bill and Beverly, wearing a Ralph Lauren suit, where Bill distinctly remembers him leaving for work in something completely different. And Ben, who sits between Mike and Richie, and who _definitely_ went into Stan’s office wearing Armani, appears to have left in Ralph Lauren, too.

“So, you convinced him to come?” Mike asks, with a chuckle.

Stan smirks, looking at the bracelet on his wrist.

“_Twice._”


End file.
